


Oh sweet Heretic

by RanOutofBatteries



Series: Blood that runs red [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: By eons I mean like three months, Gen, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Oof this has been in my notes for eons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 19:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15613425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RanOutofBatteries/pseuds/RanOutofBatteries
Summary: Signless is a preacher. He is also a storyteller. Once upon a time, he tells the story of twelve descendants, and the Grand Highblood is enraptured.





	Oh sweet Heretic

He passed by their area once, while the subjuggulators had been on lookout duty. An old wooden stage was pressed underneath the dense canopy of variegated foliage, worn down by sweeps of use for countless sermons. Despite the rays of Alternia's sun being shielded by the scarlet leaves, their eyes burned, bright and demanding.

It seemed like he'd spotted the Sufferer's following. His brothers shifted beside him, eager and insistent to shed blood. The Grand Highblood held an arm up in signal to wait.

"The whole of Alternia is under rebellion," Signless says upon that broken kingdom of wood, heresy spilling from his tongue like liquid silver. "During the course of history, we have never once been free of a matriarch. Our protests have been tempered by the swaying of higher-blooded castes, who use mind control and violence and fear as tools for the taking."

"Likewise, there is a social problem that we seek to change. This is the time. We must press onward relentlessly, and we cannot be hindered by the force our matriarch intends to put on us."

A tremor rose up from the crowd like the swell of a wave. The back of his neck prickled. "We are defined by our caste system," Signless continued, voice quiet, and yet it cuts through the silence, sharp and penetrating. "It is a terrible truth, and yet it is real. There are higher-blooded trolls who will cut us down without hesitation simply because of the color that runs through our veins. I will tell you this." His head tilted upward in a slow and powerful motion, eyes blind to everything but the sky. "We are weak."

This time, a coil of something unpleasant shot through him. The Grand Highblood drew a hand to his chest, breath shifting ever so slightly. His hands twitched. He could feel the subjuggulators around him tense.

"'That government is best which governs not at all': basically, this amounts to 'that government which the people also favor'. Her Imperial Condescension rules with an iron hand, and the short-lived objections which have been brought against her standing soldiers have also been culled accordingly. Our government itself, which has never been a way for lowbloods to express their concerns of living, is therefore abused by the empress before the people can act."

"Our government has and will always be concrete without our ability to force a change in its system. It is guided by the hand of one single empress, for a single mind can bend the whole of the government to her will. She revels in our passiveness, for that is how she gains power without a hint of resistance. She shows how successfully it is to impose on our will, our thoughts, for her own benefit. It is a terrifying notion in which how eager we are to get out of her way. A common and natural result of this undue respect is the result of her highbloods. Marching in tune to her rhythm, with or against their common sense and conscience, knowing not how to think for themselves and following like the capable machines they are. Now, what are they? People? Or brainwashed fools, who have been taught that rustbloods are mere cattle to poke at from afar?"

"With no free reign or judgement over their own thoughts, the upper classes are put equal to sticks and stones and straw, mere puppets without brains." His voice was harsh, unrelenting, and without remorse. "Sure, they play at being god for just a moment, setting fire to ants just to see them burn. But they are no match for the god above them, laughing as they never think to glance up. And why would they? They have all they need."

The silence after he finished his sentence was devastating. He could feel the trolls shrink back, and even he could feel the anger coming from the Sufferer in waves. This was no battle cry, he thought: these were the thoughts of a very terrifying lowblood, to let them see a glimpse of what he had been fighting all this time.

"We outnumber them by the millions," Signless continued, hard tone lessening. "Show them we are not cattle. They shall come and try to cull us, and we shall destroy them in return."

The reception was startling in its ferocity. The lowbloods swarmed up in a sea of rage, war written in their hands and the chaos that drew near. The pressure spiked ahundred fold. Adrenaline began to pool his eyes scarlet, and the back of his neck prickled. "This is starting to get a little bit dangerous," the highblood troll beside him muttered. Another began to rotate the clubs in his hands, testing their weight. He held one hand up to stop them and they paused accordingly.  _W_ _ait._

This was very unlike the Sufferer, the Grand Highblood mused, watching the troll standing in front of the podium. Signless preached of love, of peace, and of freedom. What was his purpose?

Before he could think any further, he spotted Signless as he sat down in one rough movement, drawing his cloak down beside him. "But before all of this, before you decide here and now, let me tell you a story."

The cheering paused. The Grand Highblood watched as the Sufferer's most faithful followers - the little olive-blood, the Dolorosa and that psionic - lean in, transfixed. It seems like they've heard this particular story before. To his discredit, he was calming down just as the audience did under the asphyxiation of that feverish noise. The mutant laughed and sat down inelegantly, drawing his cloak up around him. He leaned back. "Once upon a time," he said, eyes far away, "there were twelve trolls who decided to play a game."

He startled. He had heard something like this before, those exact words. He pulled back from the brush he hid behind abruptly, but then scrambled back to listen. A purpleblood glanced to him questioningly, but the rest stood stiff. He gave a signal with a wave of his club.  _Stand down._

"There were twelve trolls, and each of them was so different from each other that I don't even know where to begin. They were our descendants." He gestured to the three next to him. "Well, some of us, at least. Each one came from a different part of the hemospectrum, each part of the blood caste. My descendant's name was Karkat Vantas. His moirail was the Grand Highblood's very own."

He almost broke from their hiding place there and then. The trolls behind him turned their heads, and his urge to  _maim, destroy, kill_  literally shook the foliage with its intensity. He was vibrating, burning sacrilege through his veins like poison. The mutant is lying. He must be.

And yet, in the back of his mind, he could hear the faint sound of agreement.

"High on sopor and kinder than anyone he's ever met, though my descendant would never admit it." Signless scratched the side of his chin. "When he finally became sober, there was a line drawn between them. They all knew my descendant's blood color, this heretic candy red. There are social stigmas that will never go away, no matter what you attempt to do to hide it."

"But..." He shifted, moving closer to the edge of the platform. "It didn't matter in the end. Till the very end, they remained friends. He did not blame Gamzee for attacking him, and he blamed himself for failing on the terms of a leader instead. Gamzee followed his calling under the Lord Caliborn, a faithful puppet to his unyielding string, but at the time when it mattered most he turned pale."

"And!" There was a fervor to his words now, similar to the newfound glitter in his eyes. "In a game where these trolls can be at ease with each other, both low and highbloods, they've succeeded. Despite how they'd been raised, they talked and they suffered and they learned from each other. It was quite the experience, and they made it a good one. If they can do it, then why can't we?"

 _Heresy,_ his lord boomed, and for a moment - just a moment - his eyes went red.  _Pull yourself together._ _He is the lowest of blood, this heretic scum. Cull him._

And somehow, in the back of his mind, another voice murmured dissent.  _You've heard this story before, Makara. Once upon a time._

"Grand Highblood?" One of the trolls beside him murmured. "Shall we cull them?"

"No," he replied swiftly, shutting down his adrenaline rush. "We will depart immediately. This spineless lowblood shall be brought down once we regroup. These unholy followers sicken me."

"Agreed," another subjuggulator nods, and they disappear before the setting sun casts its light upon them.


End file.
